


Sapsorrow

by TealGirl



Category: Strange Magic (2015), The Storyteller (TV)
Genre: -future me coughs at that last tag-, F/M, bog eventually gets his ass handed to him in public, deception that absolutely will end well, everyone is more dramatic in this because sometimes u just gotta, fairytale AU, i promise i'm going to finish my other fic before spending time on this one, princess in disguise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TealGirl/pseuds/TealGirl
Summary: A fairy princess, lovely and fearsome, escapes from her home and a coerced marriage.A strange thing of fur and feathers, ugly and witty, finds a place and a friend in the Dark Forest.A daring warrior, mysterious and mighty, challenges the Bog King and matches him in skill.Who would’ve thought they’d all be the same girl?(Donkeyskin/Allerleirauh/Cap O’ Rushes AU, whatever you want to call it. Mostly inspired by--my personal favorite--the Jim Henson’s Storyteller adaptation.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!  
> Thank you for taking the time to read! I've been slowly writing snippets of this story on the side, and I'm too excited about it to not post something. I hope that you enjoy, and that this will be something you're interested in reading more of!

A sword, silver and sharp like moonlight.

She wasn’t sure where the idea had come from, blossoming on her tongue in a subdued tone, unbidden but certainly not unwelcome. It just might work; was plausible enough to be the key to her escape. Or at the very least, it would buy her precious time.

Her request was met with bewildered glances. She could read their suspicion as well, poorly hidden by the soft, placating smiles she saw through the crack in her chamber door (no matter how they pleaded, she would open it no further).

“I won’t marry him until I have it.” 

And at that, they stumbled to agree to her terms. Such words implied that, eventually, she  _ would. _ That she had caved. No such thing had happened, of course. They were bitter words and false hopes to give, especially to her father, but necessary. And perhaps they deserved it. Her heart burned, blackening and hardening at the betrayal of the last few days.

“We don’t want to force you,” they’d said, words that scorched and scarred. She fumed at just how naive they thought her, how submissive they wanted her to be, how such words implied that, eventually, they  _ would. _

 

But they’d never get the chance. 

 

The Light Field’s finest blacksmith began to forge her sword. She began to forge her own choice, for the idea, wherever it had come from, began to grow inside of her head, taking deep root and growing into a plan. The time was there, but finite.

She began with her closet, as it was almost all she had on hand. Quickly, she realized that most of the petal dresses and beaded spider-silk would not do. She took the darkest garments she owned--cloaks of brown fall leaves, long black gloves, an unattractive feather skirt and a blanket of fur meant for cold winters. She ripped open down-stuffed pillows, even took pieces from her rug. She was no seamstress; assembling it all, cutting and tearing and stitching back in place, was a hacking, clumsy sort of job. It also was precisely what she needed--the bulkier, the more hideous, the better.

But her plan revealed itself to be just as flawed. She ran out of materials, and had not even neared completing her enigmatic project. More importantly, she ran out of time, and panic threatened to suffocate her as she lay awake all the last night.

 

 

“It’s perfect,” she admitted in the morning, for it was. Beautiful and silvery, balanced and wickedly sharp with a sheath to match. Exactly like moonlight.

Before her father could open his mouth, relieved and on the brink of apologetic, she interrupted.

“But it needs armor to go with it. What’s a sword without armor?”

_ “Marianne-” _

Gold, she wanted, brilliant like the sun. For decoration, to remind her of old dreams that must be left behind.

She would not wed until she had it.

 

The day after, her hope renewed by their reluctant acceptance, she opened her door fully for the first time since that fateful day. Trusting felt a risk, but she had no choice but to admit it.

“Dawn, I need your help.”

“Anything,” she promised, and something in her heart warmed again at the way her sister stood by her, failing to understand but not needing to.

Smoke began rising from the smithy anew, urgent and dark and foreboding.

Dawn left, and in turn, enlisted Sunny’s help. Marianne felt odd, uncomfortable with the prospect of remaining there alone and doing nothing, but further suspicion was not something she could afford. They would slip supplies onto her balcony at night, and she would whisper her gratitude a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

In all their cleverness they brought her materials she never would’ve considered: coarse burlap and leather from the elves, more and a greater variety of stolen feathers, tree bark and woven grass and  _ bones _ ; she shuddered to think of how her baby sister acquired animal bone. It was perfect. She filed them down into claws and attached them to the gloves, made false, gnarled horns to rest on her head. 

And, of course, the layers of brown and black and torn and tattered and fur and feathers only grew. She would don it on occasion and stand before her mirror, critically judging how well it hid her wings, how unrecognizable it made her. It was still not enough. But what else could she add? 

She took ash from her fireplace, rubbed it over her skin. The dry, dusty substance stung her skin and made her itch, but it made her look leagues more alien. She smeared berry juice over her eyes, under her cheeks, the stain making her face look sunken and gaunt. She used a bit of dampened charcoal to trace past the corners of her mouth, hoping to make it look wider. And then, she looked back to her reflection.

She looked horrid. It was perfect.

 

The armor was finished and promptly brought to her door. It was not a full suit, but she hadn't really wanted one anyways. It  _ was  _ beautiful, intricate and decorative, a chest plate with arm and leg guards to match.

“A mask,” she said, wanting to wring the begging, desperate air of her voice. “Bright, like the stars. Then you can have your wedding.”

_ Just a few more days _ , she thought. She asked Sunny to hide the sword and armor by the border, wrapped in a sack along with the clothing she planned to wear beneath it, her makeup, and a bit of food and water that she knew would not last long. 

She was cursing over a set of false feet, which she had hoped would remove suspicion without tripping her, the latter of which was proving difficult. And then, the knock came.

“It’s just what I asked for,” she conceded. The expectant faces blurred together, breaking into a kaleidoscope of relieved smiles when she said, “Alright then. When?”

“As soon as possible. Four days, say?”

She nodded, closed the door to a chorus of dismay.

“What about the preparations? Your dress?”

“I already  _ have _ a wedding dress,” she snapped. “I’ll see you in four days.”

 

She was gone by the third.


	2. One Good Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd finish my other fic before continuing this one, but listen... I was really feelin' this one and so I guess I'm gonna go light my khakis on fire.  
> I hope that you'll enjoy this next bit though!!! I'm still struggling a little to nail the tone for this story, so we'll just have to see how that evolves. Let me know what y'all think, and thank you for reading!

This was insane. _She_ was insane, darting from tree to tree, plunging deeper into the darkest, deadliest world she knew of as if it would be a welcoming refuge. It would be a miracle if she wasn't killed, wings torn apart and devoured, and even still. She wouldn't-- _couldn't_ \-- turn back.  

Never in a thousand lives would she cave to such a mockery of a marriage, sealing her fate behind a meaningless crown and a heartless would-be king. Never.

And so, she flew.

Treetops were dangerous, heavily populated by hungry birds and lacking in any real shelter. But, at least this way, she could travel without being seen. There was so little she knew of her surroundings--only rumors, only what she had seen in her brief, traumatizing seconds of stumbling inside--and how long ago that seemed!

A few weeks ago, she was practically a child, blundering into the woods in broad daylight. What had she noticed other than her own terror? Here she was again, a changed fairy, fear shoved aside to make room for a cold, nervous sort of practicality.

 Goblins were said to be nocturnal, but she had caught them--they’d caught _her--_ almost immediately. So, when did they patrol? When _didn’t_ they? Would they have spies in the trees, ready to snare her in spite of all her caution?

Perhaps it was best to shove that aside too. Still, she was glad she left at dawn, when creatures of both worlds were slow no matter if they were waking up or going to sleep.

She was tired herself; the bundle she carried was heavy, filled with her supplies and odd trousseau. It was nearing midday, but the journey ahead remained long and uncertain. Still. She was dissatisfied with how far she’d traveled. 

Far below, there were still see little signs of civilization: trampled-down dirt trails, scattered mud huts, and likely much more that was well-hidden by foliage and fog. She needed to be _past_ it all, beyond even the smallest of goblin villages. To approach from the direction of the Light Fields would be much too obvious.

Or maybe she was paranoid. Maybe she was allowed a bit of paranoia, given what had happened. 

Occasionally her mind wandered, images forming from her fragmented optimism. She would find some hiding place, dry and warm, and do her best to make it comfortable. There was probably plenty of food to scavenge. It would be a lonely life, but safe. Relatively. 

Her wings ached. But still. The fairy princess pushed on, silent as the forest around her.   


Only when the sun was beginning to set did she stop, her exhaustion growing unbearable. She went slowly, cautiously, on alert for the very worst. A hollow knot in an ancient, long-dead tree caught her eye. Nerves steeled, she readied her sword and peered inside, relieved and grateful to find the darkness dry and uninhabited. Quickly as she could, she slipped inside and set down her heavy burden.

Hands shaking, she finished the final step of her disappearance. She shed her fairy finery and, at long last, donned her disguise.

It was comfortingly warm against the cool evening air. Her breath, still heavy, finally began to even. She was too tense to cry, too anxious to be hungry, too afraid to sleep. Taking her old clothes, she wrapped her armor and tucked it into a crevice in the wood where--hopefully--no one would find it, goblin _or_ beast. She settled herself against the wall next to it, huddled in the darkest corner of her shelter, sword in immediate reach.

The moment of stillness gave her a chance to think, which was something she'd much rather avoid. Inexorable, quietly-consuming, the angst rippled to the surface of her thoughts anyways.

She felt as though she was somehow always a step behind everyone, even _herself_ sometimes. Never certain what was happening, never having enough time to think things through… It felt like being caught up in a river, forced to act on impulse, panicked and not really knowing whether she was saving herself or making things worse.

No one she knew of had gone this far into the forest, especially not alone. How could she hope to survive? ...But she was alive _now_ , wasn’t she? Alive and unchained, protected as well as she could be. She’d done the impossible, gone where no one would ever look for her. And that was enough. Wasn't it?

Exhausted, hurt, and uncertain as she was, the fairy princess did not cave to despair. Instead, she tried with all her might to rest.

 

* * *

 

 

The night passed fitfully, haunted by the unfamiliar sounds of the forest-- ambient insects, snarling, hunting creatures that passed by the hollow tree... Every twig snap could be death approaching or nothing at all, and she had no way of knowing which.

When the first few hints of daylight shone through the treetops, Marianne gave up on snatching handfuls of ragged sleep. As she waited for the sun to rise fully, she allowed herself a few rations and began to plot. It seemed best to begin by searching for a better hiding spot. And... _some_ sort of food. She'd seen nothing in these woods that looked remotely appealing, let alone edible, but the goblins had to eat _something,_ didn't they?

With the vague hope of "probably" and "something," she set out once more, this time on foot and back the very way she'd come. 

Her wings, though not uncomfortable, felt restrained beneath her cloak. She stretched them as best she could, and commiserated with their longing to fly, fast and away from any sound or sign of movement. The feathers atop her back--cleverly arranged, if she did say so herself--puffed up defensively in response, almost as if they were truly part of her.

There were no paths in the depths of the Dark Forest, and often she had to claw her way over tree roots and through patches of thick undergrowth. Walking through the unfamiliar wilderness was infinitely worse than flying through it. Still, with the sun to guide her in a basic direction, as well as not having a home to begin with, she didn't worry about becoming more lost than she already was.

A few insects crossed her path or went by it, larger and more gruesome than any she'd seen before. They seemed to be unintelligent, but the quirked head of a millipede she passed made her question that. She reached for her sword, going into a cold sweat when she realized she'd left it back in the tree. Should she go back?

It probably wasn't worth it. She found a long, sturdy stick to defend herself with. Just in case.

Still unsettled by her mistake, she forced herself to focus on her goals.

_Food and shelter, food and shelter, food and-- Blackberry bush!_

Thrill spurred her onward with renewed energy, half from pride in her apparent survival skills and half from longing for the berries’ sweet taste. She was just about to leave the undergrowth to fetch some, but then, she saw it.

A goblin. Not the first goblin she’d seen, but startling nonetheless. It was a small, greyish thing, standing near the edge of the clearing and plucking a few berries of their own.

_It’s alright. I’ll just wait til they leave._

She crouched down, careful to be silent, her stick at the ready. And she waited.

A faint gust of wind shook some branches high above, and whether by instinct or sheer luck, Marianne looked up and went numb with terror. A raven, huge and hungry-eyed, had been perched high in the trees but was now swooping low, hunting for berries or goblin or _both_.

Looking back, the little goblin seemed oblivious. Though part of Marianne balked, paralyzed at the thought of danger, the rest of her couldn't bear to do nothing.

“Look out!” she cried, foolishly rushing forward. The goblin started, head whipping to snarl defensively first at Marianne, then behind her towards the real threat. The bird dove at them, and Marianne in turn dove at the goblin, tripping and tumbling and tangling as she knocked them both from harm’s way. 

Scrambling back up to her feet, Marianne panickedly tried to re-orient herself against the flapping wings and reared head of the crowing predator. She’d dropped her stick, where--? It wasn’t worth searching for.

Marianne snatched up a small rock and hurled it for all she was worth. It flinched and hopped back a step, once more flapping its wings defensively. Scattered dust filled the air, and panicked, all Marianne could think of was to throw another stone. 

Miraculously, _mercifully,_ the raven took to the air after another few peltings.  She watched, hunched over and huffing for breath, her nerves singing from the sudden excitement. But, the goblin…?

“ _Spores_ , I've gotten slow,” came a rough, grating voice, surprisingly big for such a small creature. 

Marianne turned to greet her--or defend herself against a sneak attack, she wasn't quite sure yet. She _assumed_ the goblin was female, given her dress--and she didn't miss the way those beady eyes cringed and crinkled at the sight of her face. Part of Marianne bristled, unused to such reactions. 

It was a good thing, though, to be hideous to them. 

Ugly, mysterious, not-a-fairy thing that she was, she wanted the goblin to like her. Tolerate her. Perhaps just not eat her. She offered a hand up, which the goblin took, then helped her to her feet.

“Are you alright?” she blurted.

Perhaps she shouldn't've used such an un-goblin-ish tone or phrase, but what was said was said. The goblin waved a dismissive, three-fingered hand at her. 

“Eh, nothin’ these old bones can't handle.”

Marianne nodded, and for a moment, the two simply stared at one another curiously.

“You're a funny lookin’ one, aren't you?” the goblin mused at last, unabashedly stepping forward and circling Marianne with hands on her hips, observant and calculating.

“Uhm…” Marianne turned with her, uncertain how to respond to such bluntness. “I… Suppose so. I'm not really from around here.”

The goblin perked up, seeming much more interested. “Really now? Where're you from?”

“Up northeast,” she supplied. Marianne had planned for this, practiced and memorized a falsified past that would line up with her sudden appearance. Nonetheless. Her heart beat quickly, afraid that she would make a costly slip up. “From the foothills. I'm...a bit of a wanderer, I guess you could say--”

The goblin interrupted with a low whistle. “That _is_ a long way.”

“Where am I now…?”

The goblin laughed at that. “Hoo hooo, _boy_ did you pick the wrong place to wander. Welcome to the Dark Forest! Most unwelcoming place ever.” the last bit was delivered in a dry, sarcastic, almost resentful tone, but that head of frizzy red hair quickly jerked up again. “Well, I really owe you one now, don't I? What can I do for you, miss…?”

It was an obvious question, despite being mostly unworded and tucked inside another. 

“Sapsorrow,” she readily lied. 

“Huh,” was the goblin’s only reply.

“Uhm,” Marianne started, uncertain of what to ask for, if anything at all. She wanted to be cautious-- This seemed the sort of situation that could easily snare her right onto a goblin’s dinner plate. Though the one before her _did_ seem a bit small for that.

 At last, she stammered out, “Is, uh… Is there anywhere nearby I can stay the night? Could you point me in the right direction?”

The goblin laughed again, not quite mocking, but certainly at the fairy’s expense anyways. “Oh, you poor thing. Anywhere that’s not out in the open! Though if you’re smart, you’ll sleep with one eye open anyways.”

Marianne flushed, feeling foolish. What was she expecting--some sort of cozy inn? Seeming to sense her helplessness, the goblin woman went to her side, a guiding, three-fingered hand touching her elbow.

“You probably can guess by now,” she said, eyes darting back to where the bird’s talon marks still marred the earth. “But the Dark Forest’s a dangerous place to be, ‘specially if you’re green. How’s about you stay with me for a night or two? At least ‘til you figure things out. It's the least I can do.” 

Marianne hesitated at the offer. It would be all too easy to get stabbed in the back, trusting like this, but nor did she like the alternative of passing the rest of her nights in a knothole, sleepless and insecure.

She nodded, smiling awkwardly at the goblin's wide grin. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

“So polite!” she noted, seeming genuinely pleased. “Can always use some of that around here. Speakin’ of, where’re _my_ manners? Name’s Griselda.” 

She offered Marianne a hand, which she reached out to shake, but instead the goblin used it to tug her forward and further into the woods, chattering all the way, genial and nothing like what one expected goblins to be.

Peering out from underneath her hood, Marianne made careful, frantic note of their surroundings. Hope against hope, she would be able to find her way back again.

 

* * *

 

Griselda, an apparent old-timer despite all of her energy, knew the forest down to its last detail. She also seemed to appreciate having such a rapt audience, though Marianne was mostly focused on information she could use, half wishing she had a way to take notes.

The goblin warned against the sweet-smelling pitcher plants, revealed a hidden path through a wall of briars, even showed her the stream that ran through most of the forest.

"Worst comes to worst, you can always follow this into town. The water runs west, so careful to not get caught up, else it'll take you straight to the Light Fields."

Marianne nodded, already having known that much. Which... _Sapsorrow_ couldn't possibly know anything about.

"Uh, where?" she said, trying to sound interested and not as though she was hurriedly correcting herself.

"Outside the Forest. That's all fairy territory though," Griselda waved a derisive hand. "Trust me, you don't wanna bother with that."

No, no she did not.

The pair passed by a few stray houses and their owners, occasionally met with bewildered stares and narrowed glares. Her companion seemed entirely unbothered, however, and no one so much as approached them, so Marianne ignored the nervous sweat trickling down her neck.

Griselda, aside from pointing out surroundings and talking for the sake of talking, did ask questions--though whether she was being polite or invasive, Marianne wasn't sure. She answered according to her fictional past, telling her how she'd come from a small tribe of scavengers and set out on her own after a disagreement. She even blushed and managed an innocuous, if not awkward, laugh when asked if she had a partner.

But still, Marianne found it much too easy to relax in her presence. Griselda was brash and opinionated, everything that would've been considered "crass" back at home, and the princess was positively taken with her. Sad though it was, she was in dire need of a friendly, honest face.

From what she could glean, Griselda ran the kitchens, though... _where_ was yet to be determined. Perhaps she was a cook, or some sort of head housekeeper in a noble's mansion. Thus, Marianne wasn't entirely surprised when the old woman led her to a small, back entrance to a large, raised structure. 

Though relatively close to the nearest cluster of goblin houses, the ancient tree stump was quite isolated. It had small structures along its cleared grounds, and was near the edge of a steep, foggy ravine. There was even what looked to be a guarded bridge stretching over to a gate.

Fortified, defensible, unlike any of the other buildings they’d passed-- _oh no._

The castle. It had to be.

Marianne found her fear again, feet leaden as Griselda showed her inside.

The kitchen inside was large, unfamiliar though unspectacular. It had a few windows for light, and a few workers who returned Grielda's greeting with indifferent grunts. 

"A bunch of grumps, _all_ of them," she muttered. "Don't let it get to you. There _is_ someone I'd like you to meet though!"

Marianne was frozen with uncertainty. She didn't _want_ to be introduced to _anyone,_ and once again, the entire situation screamed _"trap!"_ Grielda seemed beyond casual, almost excited and... _elated_. Over what? Marianne didn't know, and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

It would ruin what fragile acceptance she had if she ran now. Still. Her situation seemed to be spiraling far, _far_ from her expectations and control. Frantic, she memorized the hallways, took note of every window and potential escape route there was.

Griselda brought her to their destination, and what a room it was! Massive and _dark,_ constricting in all its emptiness, and there at its far end?

Worse and worse still. A raised throne, crafted from animal bone and draped in shadows. And _occupied._

“Look who I just met!” Griselda sing-songed, her voice filling the cavernous room only to be swallowed by its rotting, wooden walls.

 Marianne paled, hardly believing that _this_ was who she was being introduced to.

“She’s _new_ to the forest…”

As good as dead is what she was. How could she be so foolish, so _trusting--_

“Say hello to--”

“Enough,” the creature growled. 

Marianne watched as the shadowy figure left the darkness to step closer, all plates and spines and snarls. His glaring gaze deemed to trap her, uncomfortable as a coat of thorns and yet she could _not_ look away. She considered herself brave, yes, but there was no denying--he intimidated, terrified, and seemed to know it all too well.

The infamous Bog King grasped his staff and leaned over, glaring menacingly into the princess' face.  
"You don't _look_ like a normal goblin..." he said.

How could her heart beat so fast and time go so _slowly_ all at once? 

And yet, she found herself trembling not only with panic, but with _indignation_ at his suspicion. What might he do if he found out? At the same time, _why_ did he act so accusingly when--at least as far as they knew--she’d done nothing wrong? Defensiveness, rudeness, _strength--_ those were the qualities she needed. _Be goblin-like._ If she just _leaned_ into her anger--   
Before she could catch herself, she was blurting, "Neither do you."

Oh. She was done for.

His brow-- _somehow_ \-- furrowed more than it already was. With a snort, he straightened and turned his head away, proud and authoritative in manner but _oh_ , she could tell the comment had taken him off guard.

"No matter. What d'you think your doing here in my forest?"

She swallowed, grateful for the layers of cloth and feathers that hid the bob of her throat. Feigning an indifferent shrug, she let loose her reckless series of lies. "Didn't think there was a rule against it. There was nothing left for me where I came from, so, I started walking and wound up here."

"And where might _that_ be?"

She matched his scowl and irritated scoff, and found that her derision was becoming less and less of a mere act. "I came from the northeast; used to live in the foothills. Honestly, are you always this--?"

"You could very well be anyone," he snarled abruptly, shocking her back into silence. "A spy, assassin, conniving opportunist…”

With every word, he took another step closer, his staff hitting the floor with a condemning _thud,_ and Marianne clenched her jaw from the effort it took to stand her ground. Even as she found herself face to face with the terror of the dark forest, she refused to so much as wince. Whether he noticed her bravery or not, she couldn't be sure, as he continued with his speech unaffected.

"Havin' subjects claw for a chance at the Queen’s throne is bad enough, but _you?"_

She flushed, sputtered, fears and furies alike brought to a halt. _"What?"_

He looked confused by her reaction, his face softening ever so slightly in all his bewilderment. His gaze then moved to fall on Griselda. Those oddly blue eyes rolled skyward and he turned away, one hand sliding down his face.

 _"Mother,"_ he groaned, and the _things_ she was learning in that moment. "You didn’t even--? We've talked about this."

"Oh, like I’m gonna just _let_ you be alone and miserable! Besides! She's perfect!" The apparent dowager Queen fired back, hot on his heels as he stalked away.

"You can't just waylay every girl you come across! She's not interested-"

“‘Course she is!”

"I'm...?" Marianne interrupted, one hand waving in an exasperated gesture. "Right here. Although yeah--and no offense--I don't want to... _yeah."_

The Bog King, for all her expectations of outrage at her insolence, merely gave a pointed look to his mother and gestured towards Marianne as if to say _"see?"_ Before Griselda could protest further, he muttered something about having more important things to do and took off.   
  
Hands on her hips and head hanging, the stout little goblin sighed. Marianne felt a twinge of sympathy for her, was also struggling to find any sort of family resemblance, but Griselda's boom of a voice shocked her out of it, chipper and piercing as ever.

"Well! I think that was a success!"

"Uhm," was all she could think to say at first. 

"Or well, _you_ made a good first impression, I'd say. Don't mind all his grumbling. He'll come around, you'll see!"

"Gris-- _Your majesty_ , I'm sorry, but I-- I don't think either of us--"

"Pshaw, are you kidding? You're so alike, you actually got full sentences outta that grouch! Talked right back! Ha!"  

Marianne tried to not combust from discomfort. Griselda seemed to notice this, and returned to her side to elbow her playfully, her voice mercifully dropping an octave or so to something gentle, more motherly.

"Listen dew-drop, no one's gonna make you do _squat_. But I'm telling you, I've got an eye for chemistry! Tell you what-- you can stick around here as long as you want. I mean it! You can help me in the kitchens, and who knows? Maybe more sparks'll start to fly!" The last bit had a suggestive air to it, and was accompanied by another elbowing. "And if not, oh well! You can stay anyways and I'll just keep looking. Whaddya say--wanna give it a chance?"

Marianne slumped a little, half in relief and half in defeat. This solved her problems and thrust new ones at her simultaneously, but... She supposed a little awkwardness was well worth reliable food and shelter. And she’d just faced down the Bog King himself! Nothing had to happen, and given the King's reaction, nothing was _going_ to either.

"Okay," she agreed. 

Griselda cackled in delight, immediately jumping back into chattering and dragging her off skies-knew-where.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this pretty late at night, so I'm going to come back and catch up on replies tomorrow!!! Thank you all so much for leaving them; I've re-read them countless times while writing this. You're all a huge inspiration and I'm crazy grateful!!!


	3. The Kitchen Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, another short update, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!

The work in the castle kitchens was hard, gruesome--more foul than any task Marianne had ever undertaken. And she  _ reveled _ in it. 

At first, her stomach churned at the sight of animals being butchered and slop pails overflowing, but days waxed into weeks and she changed along with them. She still disliked the unpleasantness, but found there was little merit to her initial squeamishness. Disgusting as filth could be, it generally was not deadly, and difficult as scrubbing and scraping and hefting and lowering and stirring and scrubbing again could be, seeing the end result,  _ accomplishing _ something tangible and useful, felt more satisfying than she knew was possible. 

The Bog King’s fortress, for all its age and decrepit darkness, was kept clean and comfortable. Those living there were well-fed, its storerooms organized and slowly filling for the next winter. It was no fairy palace, to be sure. Words did not express her gratitude for that.

Soon enough, Marianne bustled about with confidence and efficiency, glad to be part of a group, to feel herself growing, to simply have something to  _ do. _ The goblins were strange to her, but not at all the animalistic villains she’d been warned of. They were blunt, unconcerned with how they looked or were perceived. And, admittedly, rather violent. She reveled in that too.

And if ever a twinge of homesickness came? She swallowed it back down, only ever risking relief in the dead of night, shut away in her tiny room and with only the pale moonlight for solace.

It was one of those sorts of nights. Marianne was alone in the kitchen and looking forward to a good night’s rest, struggling to keep the self-pity at bay as she finished her tasks.

Was she happy here? She didn’t feel that way, but then, she didn’t feel much of  _ anything _ these days. It was an odd, disquieting sort of realization, how oddly detached she felt--neither good nor bad but certainly not normal. “Sapsorrow” seemed more of a puppet she commanded than an alter-ego, a feathery shell that kept her hidden, but utterly separate from the world. 

Marianne set to cleaning the floor, still indulging in her ghost-like feeling as she crept along on her hands and knees. At least for the moment, she was herself again, free to strain her wings and quietly ache for home. Or, that is, she would’ve  _ liked _ to.

"Hello?" came a distant, rumbling question, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Marianne jerked to attention, raising her head to look at the visitor, but she'd already recognized the voice. Hastily, she looked back down again and scrubbed more fervently at the floor.

"Mother?"

He hadn't noticed her yet. Perhaps she could slip out?

"Ah, you there, where's--?"

_ Oh, hell. _

She looked at him just as his expression contorted into surprised recognition, then embarrassment, then disdain. 

_ "You." _

"Me," she confirmed, sighing and equally as uncomfortable. "Uhm, I… Don’t know where she is now. Your mother, I mean. She gave me a job here."

"Of course she did," he grumbled, clawing down the side of his face, and it was a  _ wonder _ he didn't maul himself doing so. "Meddling sneak that she is." 

Marianne found the words out of her mouth before she could catch them.

"You don't have to worry about me... _ pursuing _ you, though, I won’t lie, that  _ is _ her plan."

She hoisted up her water bucket, and found him glaring down at her in unimpressed annoyance. It should’ve frightened her, reminded her that he was royalty and she was  _ nobody. _ But no. Half of her was desperate to preserve her newfound security, the other half stupidly,  _ insanely _ eager to snark right back.

The silence was growing intolerable. Marianne took a breath. 

"For the record," she said, moving to empty the dirty water out the window, "I don't want to be with  _ anyone _ . It's nothing personal. Love's just... _ foolish _ , a waste of time."

She could feel his eyes on her back, and hesitated where she was. She could make a quick escape if needed, couldn’t she? The window was right there--if only she could shed her cloak quick enough--

"You're wiser than most, then."

She turned in surprise. 

The Bog King was avoiding eye contact, but looked...understanding.  _ Tired. _

"You really think so," she said, sardonic and almost certain that this was some kind of verbal trap. He glared briefly at her again, then sighed and slouched, using his ornate staff as support. 

"My mother means well enough, but I wouldn't touch the stuff either. Not for all the world."

She felt herself relax as well, the bulk of fur and feathers on her back settling. 

"Oh. Well. You're wiser than most too, then."

He blinked, a slight tilt to his head, and stared at her with a guarded, scrutinizing expression. Much to Marianne’s discomfort, he was otherwise unresponsive. She tried for a joking tone, hoping to cut the tension.

“I hear tell that you managed to  _ ban _ it here. Is that true? Because I’ll apply for citizenship if it is.”

Oh, and  _ there _ was his scowl again.

“That’s  _ not _ what-- It’s more complicated than _that_. Of course I couldn’t--”

He growled, frustrated by his own blustering, and likely more so by her teasing smirk.

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

“I’ve better things to do.”

“And so do I, so nevermind.”

Her quick, sharp response shocked him into silence once more. From the baffled, angrily-conflicted look on his face, he wasn't sure whether to be offended or ignore her.   
She elected to do the ignoring herself and go back to her work, if only to avoid another agonizing silence. King or no, she was minding her own business and wasn't going to let him get in her way. He too moved to leave, but hesitated when he reached the stairs.

"Ah… My mother told me how you saved her." his voice was a halting rasp, as though the words were difficult. " ...Thank you. What's your name, again?"

"I didn't give it earlier. But..." she almost entirely blanked, caught in his expectant stare.  "...it's Sapsorrow."

"Hmh. That's...unusual."

She smiled. "I've been told it suits me."

He seemed to teeter on the brink of smiling back, but quickly cleared his throat, readdressing her in a formal rasp.

"Ah. Well then,  _ Sapsorrow _ . My mother doesn't need to know we've had this conversation, understood?"

She bobbed her head. Part of her resented having to take orders from him, but it  _ did  _ seem best to let Griselda keep her illusion of weddings and grandchildren. "As you wish."

He cleared his throat again, and without a farewell, was gone.


End file.
